The Pathfinders

Poem By Vance Palmer

Night, and a bitter sky, and strange birds crying,
The wan trees whisper and the winds make moan,
Here where in ultimate peace their bones are lying
In gaunt waste places that they made their own,
Beyond the ploughed lands where the corn is sown.

Death, and untrodden ways, and night before them,
From sheltering homes and friendly hearths they came;
Far from the mouldering dust of those that bore them
They rest in silence now and know no fame,
No proud stone speaks, no waters lip the name.

Brave and undaunted hearts, eyes lit with laughter,
Minds that outran the ancient doubts and fears,
They blazed the track for legions following after,
And bared new treasure to the hungry years,
Till spent with strife they sank amongst the spears.

Slow sinks the glowing flame and fades the ember,
No bright star flickers and the woods are stark,
But still our children's children will remember
The swift forerunners, bearers of the ark,
Who lit the beacons in the uncharted dark.

Rich towns shall flourish on the hills that hold them,
Bright dreams shall quicken from their wandering dust,
And till the end our reverent minds shall fold them
In storied chambers free from moth and rust:
The fealty pledged, the kingdom given in trust.

Comments about The Pathfinders

And so it goes throughout our human story... *No proud stone speaks*... countless unsung heroes
Slow sinks the glowing flame and fades the ember, No bright star flickers and the woods are stark, But still our children's children will remember The swift forerunners, bearers of the ark, Who lit the beacons in the uncharted dark. Tremendous amount of beauty and depth, the language is rich and flow with natural rhythm, a really great modern poem of the day
Beautiful poem. Brings out so many emotions.
he could be one of the pathfinders.


Rating Card

3,1 out of 5
34 total ratings

Other poems of VANCE PALMER

Youth And Age

Youth that rides the wildest horse,
Youth that throws the deadliest steer,
Spending strength without remorse,
Grappling with the ghosts of fear,

The Farmer Remembers The Somme

Will they never fade or pass!
The mud, and the misty figures endlessly coming
In file through the foul morass,
And the grey flood-water ripping the reeds and grass,

The Road To Roma Jail

It's a long road, a cruel road, the road to Roma Jail,
birds in all the branches mocking as you pass,

Song Of The Old Boundary Rider

Fat and full of health are the valleys of the Condamine,
There the yellow maize and the green tobacco grow,